


Disruption

by aishahiwatari



Series: Humanity [3]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 Get Some, Hand Jobs, M/M, Missing Scene, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 11:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: Hughie looks Butcher in the eye, Butcher who alternately regards him with a vague sort of affection and swears at him in laboured metaphors, who has warm hands that have taken lives and moved corpses but have never touched Hughie in any way he doesn’t want. He probably wouldn’t go so far as calling them gentle, but certainly- good.It’s always been good between them. And Hughie’s running on fumes, on hysteria and terror, but he doesn’t see why any of that has to change.





	Disruption

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure where the fuck Hughie was supposed to be staying during those early episodes, so this will have to do. Sorry again if it's wildly contradicted later.

“Keep your things in your bag. We may need to leave quickly,” is what Frenchie says in lieu of giving any sort of tour of his safehouse. He makes tea without offering any to Hughie, who’s stood, feeling lost, in the middle of the living room, or Butcher, who’s checking all the windows, and then he shuts himself in one of the rooms and turns his music up.

Hughie feels a small twinge of anticipation, an unfortunate side-effect that makes itself known, now, every time he and Butcher are alone.

“You’ll be safe here,” Butcher tells him anyway, and Hughie snorts.

“In the safehouse?”

“With Frenchie.” But Butcher is smiling, just a little.

“You’re not staying? We could braid each other’s hair, talk about boys, watch Bake Off.”

“Watch what?” Butcher is wandering off, into the kitchen, sniffs cautiously at a teabag and grimaces then makes a cup anyway.

“The Great British- are you joking? I don’t even know any more.”

“No clue what you’re talking about.”

The tea turns out to be for Hughie. Vaguely, he accepts the cup, sinks down onto the worn couch on which he presumes he will be sleeping, since there isn’t another bedroom, just a kind of mouldy-looking bathroom. He inhales the flowery scented steam, identifies it as chamomile, isn’t sure which of the other two men have surprised him most in its provision.

His mind gets stuck on the previous issue. “You really don’t like Bake Off? It’s British.”

“So’s colonialism. Putting baked beans on pizza. Doctor Who. Doesn’t make me a fan.”

“Beans on pizza? Sounds fake.”

“I fucking wish.” Butcher sinks into the seat beside him, leans his head back against the cushions to sigh. He just closes his eyes and breathes for a while, and Hughie doesn’t doubt that he’s being allowed to see the lines in his face, to watch the rise and fall of his chest, the pulse beat in his neck.

He sips his tea and wishes it was something stronger. His eyelids feel heavy but his mind is still racing. Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees things he’d rather forget. 

“Let me help you get some sleep,” Butcher leans over to murmur against Hughie’s throat, already reaching to stroke him through his jeans. Hughie wants to melt, to give into all of it, but Frenchie’s hurry to be elsewhere suddenly makes a lot more sense. They’re a thing now, he and Butcher. It’s expected that they will make use of any time alone to do- well, to do this. He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

Butcher’s not even asking any more, except of course he is, going no further without more of a confirmation from Hughie than the admittedly encouraging soft moan and a tilt of his head, the slight spreading of his legs to seek more from the hand that rests mostly on his thigh.

And fuck Frenchie, fuck everyone who isn’t he and Butcher in that moment, because Hughie watched someone die today, again, during sex, and if anything’s going to put him off the act it’s seeing that landlord with his skull smashed open like an egg, and Butcher standing in his way to insist that they could have done nothing to save him. He won’t let anyone take away his enjoyment of his own body, and spiteful energy has him up, swinging a leg over Butcher’s to straddle him, slamming his tea down on a crate masquerading as an end table and sloshing half of it everywhere.

He looks Butcher in the eye, Butcher who alternately regards him with a vague sort of affection and swears at him in laboured metaphors, who has warm hands that have taken lives and moved corpses but have never touched Hughie in any way he doesn’t want. He probably wouldn’t go so far as calling them gentle, but certainly- good.

It’s always been good between them. And Hughie’s running on fumes, on hysteria and terror, but he doesn’t see why any of that has to change.

Butcher watches him like he’s sure Hughie is about to either kill him or kiss him and he can’t decide which is worse, but that’s alright. Hughie knows the rules. He leans back, strips off his shirt, preens a little at the darkening of Butcher’s eyes, the contemplative tilt of his head, the twitch of his fingers. His arms are at his sides. He hasn’t been told he can touch.

It gives Hughie a singular rush of power to see it, one that only builds when he unfastens his pants, lowers the zipper, frees his half-hardness from his underwear and strokes, just enough to get him going, to have him kneeling in Butcher’s lap with his cock curving upwards towards his belly, just touching the trail of hair there when he rolls his hips. He’s putting on a show, teasing, enjoying the hunger in the gaze that roams over him.

And then he reaches for Butcher’s fly -slowly, he’s not suicidal- and says, “May I?”

“You’d fucking better.”

It’s a joke. Hughie doesn’t doubt he could walk away right now and all he’d have to endure is being called a cunt marginally more often. Maybe that’s what Butcher wants him to think. Maybe he’d snap Hughie’s neck if he even tried it.

Hughie shudders. His cock twitches. He has so many fucking issues, but at the moment, the one at the forefront can easily be solved. “Touch me.”

“Me first,” Butcher growls, but he does set those hands on Hughie’s waist, presses his thumbs into Hughie’s belly. Hughie breathes in, into his chest, to see if they reach all the way around then, and Butcher’s grip tightens obligingly, but he’s just not that skinny. His little disappointed sound makes Butcher bare teeth, and squeeze. Hughie wants fingerprint bruises all over his body with an intensity that stuns him, makes him waver briefly except that’s not his world shifting beneath him, it’s Butcher rolling his hips impatiently.

Hughie smiles at him, gets a stony glare in response. He does reach for Butcher’s fly, too, finds his stupid eyelashes fluttering when Butcher tightens his grip to reward him. Somehow he keeps his focus, fumbles with the button and then the zipper and then the fabric underneath. Butcher lifts his hips to help him get his jeans out the way, effortlessly moving Hughie’s weight as well and then smirking at the wide-eyed, impressed expression on Hughie’s face.

They’ve never really been face to face before, Hughie never in a position to actually witness the softening of Butcher’s expression when he does something that feels good. It’s a rush, and when he rubs his thumb over the head of Butcher’s cock, smearing the fluid there, he’s rewarded with a soft smile he doesn’t think he’s seen before. Butcher’s dangerous, to Hughie more than anybody, in more ways than one.

Hughie licks his thumb clean, gets a soft rumble of approval and an aborted movement like Butcher wants to taste it on his tongue and thinks better of it. It makes him feel a little smug, something he’s sure shows in his face when Butcher rolls his eyes. Kissing is fun, and Hughie likes it, but he understands why there has to be that illusion of a barrier between them. He’s not going to push it.

He trails his fingers through the same fluid beading at the tip of his own cock, tilts his head to smear it over the pulse point in his throat and yelps when Butcher hauls him in to bite that same spot hard, snarling.

It rapidly dissolves any sense of control Hughie felt like he had over the situation, makes him mewl and melt and submit to the fist clenched in his hair, the fingers pressing bruises into his hip, the blunt teeth and harsh suction, the tongue chasing the taste of him.

He can barely hold himself up by the time Butcher stops, his face still so close to Hughie’s, his eyes almost swallowed up by black, intense and possessive. “Do it again.”

Rapidly reaching the point of being achingly hard, Hughie does as he’s told. He’s beginning to drip, collects it on his fingers, dares to touch Butcher’s bottom lip with one of them to watch him lick it off, suck it into his mouth to scrape it with his teeth. The others he wipes across the corner of his jaw, on the other side, down his throat right where he can feel his pulse pounding. His fingers are barely clear before Butcher’s mouth is on his skin again, less biting, more lathing with his tongue, a wet warmth that cools rapidly, makes Hughie shiver.

He's enjoying it, barely notices that he’s involuntarily rolling his hips in search of friction that is not forthcoming, whimpers his objection when soft lips and coarse beard are no longer pressed close, gasps breathlessly when Butcher wraps a hand around his wrist, enclosing it easily and guiding Hughie’s fingers into his mouth.

“Holy fuck,” Hughie says, staring, cock twitching at the feeling of all that silken heat, the swirling of a skilled tongue. He understands a little more when Butcher pulls back, licks wetly across his palm, and then guides his hand down, wrapping it around both of them, pressed together, hot in every possible way.

There are fingers at his lips, then, too, and he opens his mouth to take them in, groans when they press down on his tongue, teasing at the edge of his gag reflex, too big for him to swallow around so he just drools messily, barely able to maintain the motion of his own hand, stroking them both too weakly for it to be satisfying. It feels like a loss when Butcher withdraws, makes him whine and then groan, hips shuddering when Butcher’s much larger hand wraps tightly around his.

He is definitely more in control of his faculties than Hughie is, actually has to tap the underside of Hughie’s chin with his free hand to remind him to close his mouth and swallow. Hughie pants, his breath coming too harsh and too fast.

“Breathe, Hughie.”

Oh, right- “Yep.” Hughie’s light-headed, but he manages, somehow, realises with a huff of laughter that he’s instinctively timing it to match the long, slow strokes of Butcher’s hand around their cocks. It’s a torturous, dragging friction, and it gives him something to focus on, something so good he’s close before he even really realises it. He doesn’t want it to be over, closes his eyes, leans in to press his cheek to Butcher’s because the urge to kiss him is instinctive and verging on overwhelming, in the intensity of the moment.

Coarse hair rasps against his cheek, his legs are spread around thick thighs, pressure rises at the base of his spine and somehow he still drags in air, each breath coming out as a ragged, desperate little moan. There’s a strong arm wrapped around his waist, hauling him closer.

Butcher turns his head, just a little, to murmur in his ear, “That’s it, baby.”

Fuck, it really is. Hughie comes at those words, shudders and trembles through the sudden and involuntary pulsing of his cock, the racing of his heart, the sensation of turning inside out, almost, with how badly he wants it. He gasps and pants, and rests his forehead on Butcher’s shoulder so he can watch those long fingers continue to work over Butcher’s cock, slicked with Hughie’s come, a last, wringing spurt eked out of him by that thought, his hips twitching with every brush of Butcher’s hand.

But there is really something all-consumingly erotic about watching Butcher come, the pulses of creamy fluid caught in those skilled, calloused hands, the rhythmic clenching of stomach muscles under another of those ridiculous shirts, the catch of his breathing and the soft groan he tries to suppress but can’t, with Hughie so close.

He’s so outrageously fucking hot, even as he wipes his hand on Hughie’s stomach, even as he twists so Hughie can see him arch a brow with a smug expression on his face.

“Shut up,” Hughie grumbles, before he can even say anything, and he gets a low rumble of a laugh in response, Butcher’s hand at the back of his neck guiding him to lean his head more comfortably on a broad shoulder. He feels Butcher’s cheek resting against his for a moment, and there’s a strong arm around his waist. Gradually, their breathing slows.

“I should go,” Butcher says after a while, and if there’s regret in his tone, Hughie’s sure it’s only because he’s comfortable, there, getting sleepy with the fading adrenaline.

“I should shower.”

“Yeah, you’re a real fucking mess.”

Hughie lets his head hang a little heavier for a moment, and then he sits up, stretches until his back cracks and the drying come pulls at the hair on his stomach, and moves aside.

-

Afterwards, Hughie lays on the couch, under a slightly musty smelling blanket. He’s still wearing his jeans, too paranoid or justifiably concerned to lay there in his underwear, although he’s draped his shirt over the pillow he’s using, not quite able to have his face pressed against the stained fabric even after all he’s been through. He stares up at the ceiling, trying to parse shapes out of the moving shadows and patches of damp, a kind of grim alternative to counting sheep. His eyelids feel heavy, and although his mind still won’t entirely quiet, he feels more settled than he has done, on previous nights.

“He is manipulating you, you know.” Frenchie says, and Hughie nearly jumps out of his skin. It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but even when they do, he can’t quite reconcile them with his reality.

Frenchie takes his silence as permission to continue. He doesn’t approach, apparently doesn’t need to see Hughie’s reactions, just stays there somewhere near the doorway to the bedroom. “The sex. The illusion of vulnerability. The small touches that make you crave more. It’s to give you a reason to stay, when you realise you no longer agree with his principles.”

Silence is suddenly no longer an option. Hughie’s feeling defensive, and he’s not even sure why. He doesn’t doubt Butcher gives no fucks about what Frenchie thinks about what they’ve been doing.

“It’s just sex. That’s all it is. It’s just- nice to have a few minutes where things feel good.” They sound like empty words even to Hughie, but he’s feeling a little empty himself, caved-in where he had thought he was sure of his foundations. It really is just sex. Some people are only saying it, so it’s one of those clichés, but he is not one of those people. He doesn’t want anything more than casual, isn’t ready for it.

“But only with him.”

Fuck. Frenchie’s got him there. Hughie just cringes to himself, because yeah, it’s only Butcher he wants. He can’t argue it’s not personal.

“He is an attractive man. Powerful. Confident, not always rightfully.” Frenchie admits, too, which sends Hughie’s mind wandering in all sorts of inappropriate directions. Could the two of them have fucked? Does it really matter if they did? It shouldn’t. He can’t imagine it would have been anything like Butcher is with Hughie, more of a fight than a wilful submission, on either of their parts. He remembers Frenchie holding a gun to Butcher’s head. “Do you remember what I said, when we first met? You are still alive, now, but he will not save you when he can no longer use you.”

“Maybe I’m using him.”

Frenchie huffs, amused, and he shakes the pill bottle he’s holding so it rattles. “You use him, like I use these. The difference is, I know how to get more, when these are not enough.”

He walks away when that fails to get a response. What can Hughie possibly say? He’s not doing any of this because it’s a part of his fucking five-year plan. He’s just muddling through and hoping for the best and surviving by the skin of his teeth. This- thing with Butcher is actually one of the least complicated issues in his life, at this point.

Frenchie doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Hughie still gets no fucking sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly Heinz discontinued their baked bean pizza in the early 2000s.


End file.
